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Now that we’re already up to here with Tatum and Ryan O’Neal‘s reality fights and make-nices on Oprah‘s network, I asked him why. Why this dumb show?

“I’m 70. I’m not looking to jumpstart a new career. I’m on TV’s series ‘Bones.’ I don’t need money. Tatum’s a businesswoman. She’s the executive producer. This was her idea.”

She need money?

“I didn’t say that. I only say I didn’t spend all my money. I also say she likes to shop.”

What began all the animus between father and daughter?

“When we made ‘Paper Moon’ and Tatum won an Oscar at age 10, she was beguiling. We bonded. I wanted less time with her mother and more with her. But came Farrah and the love of that wonderful woman. Our love affair occasionally wobbled but it held. That’s when Tantrum, as I call her, disappeared. I never saw her or my grandchildren. Never even saw pictures of them. She’d change her phone number. She’d piss me off. Farrah Fawcett was the whole thing.

“I was the big problem. The complete failure. I wanted my little girl back, but I blew it. My own fault. Most times I don’t like myself, but I’m not a bad guy. If things were to do over, I’d do it differently — but Tatum’s very complicated. Triggers still go off in her mind. She wanted a piece of me, but she still can’t figure was it Farrah or me that made her split.

“Farrah was frightened of Tatum, who held nothing back. At 16, Tatum was very experienced and already dressing like Anouk Aimée. Problem was, where did she fit in with Farrah? Y’know, I still feel Farrah’s essence. I remember her as a goddess. I recently dreamt I was talking to her. We were together 17 years, even though for a while she was sick of me. At the end she asked, ‘Am I going to make it?’ I said, ‘Of course.’ And I loved her then more than ever.”

Ryan’s eyes teared up. “I told Tatum that Farrah needed me. She said: ‘I need you, too.’ Look, I live alone in Malibu with my dog. We’re not at each other’s throats anymore, but can I say I’m now ready to go all the way with her? Not yet.”

Sacha Baron Cohen‘s movie about a dictator shoots all this week. On First Avenue, Houston to 16th Street. Then Harlem . . . Tony-winning “Hair,” again upon us, reopens St. James Theatre July 13.

Peter Falk. Arriving promptly 1 o’clock for one 12:30 lunch, he said: “I play tough-guy roles, but I’m likable.” Next, a booming yawn like Tarzan’s old college yell. Then his elbow slid out to cradle his weary head, which rested inside my Cobb salad.

“I used to sleep in class. Always I’d throw my pants on over pajamas and run to school, barely making it in time.”

An educated “A” student, a B.A. in political science, he said: “I hung with bums in the pool room, which is why I tawk like I do. But my manner of tawkin’ is really me. Look, I at least remembered not to call the governor a bum.”

His wardrobe? Unbuttoned dress shirt half out of trousers. Tie askew. Unshaven. Hair flopped over his good eye. “I’m a bad slob,” he said. Really? He could have fooled me.

“My sloppiness is unpleasant, I know. I try to improve to be neater and cleaner, but I don’t succeed. Used to be worse. I hate to shop. Even if I have clothes, I beat them to death. I never hang them up. If nobody reminds me, I’ll wear the same thing every day.

“And I’m not social. I only have a few friends that I know very good. I don’t care for all that ***%$##@.”